


Father's Family Name

by TaraLaurel1



Series: What's In a Name? [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Memories, Past, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraLaurel1/pseuds/TaraLaurel1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What did Hamish have to offer his child? No land or house or money. No family heirloom. All he possessed, all he ever had, was his name. So he gave it to John." From a prompt from Kura06 on Tumblr to me. "What if John hates his middle name because it was his father's?" Also for letswritesherlock challenge #10 of a missing scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All He Had to Give

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt from Kura06 on Tumblr to me. "What if John hates his middle name because it was his father's?" Also for letswritesherlock challenge #10 of a missing scene. This is a VERY different take on things from "In the Name of the Father".
> 
> There will be a couple of fics like these, for why John doesn't like his middle name.

_You got it from your father_   
_It was all he had to give_   
_So it's yours to use and cherish_   
_For as long as you may live_

_If you lost the watch he gave you_   
_It can always be replaced;_   
_But a black mark on your name_   
_Can never be erased_

_It was clean the day you took it_   
_And a worthy name to bear_   
_When he got it from his father_   
_There was no dishonor there_

_So make sure you guard it wisely_   
_After all is said and done_   
_You'll be glad the name is spotless_   
_When you give it to your son_

_\- "Father's Family Name", a poem by Anonymous_

Hamish

George

Watson.

That was it.

That was all he had.

All he had to give.

After serving in the military to support his family, Hamish Watson had been rewarded for his dedication and sacrifice with a bullet to the brain.

Oh, he didn't die.

No.

That would've been easy. Kinder.

This war wound lingered. Like a disease, it slowly ate away at the man that was once Hamish Watson, reducing him eventually to little more than a full grown drooling infant.

The Watsons never had much. None of them. Looking back at their ancestry, each generation had to fight and scrap for their place in the world. Or, just a place to put their head at night.

They weren't future-minded folk. They couldn't afford to be. It was a sad truth that a fair few of them died without ever having a family. With nothing to leave behind. Nothing to give.

When Helen Marie Weller met Hamish Watson, he had very little to offer her. He was slaving away at the same factory that she was. So he withdrew himself to spare her. But she was quite a persistent little thing. Stubborn to the very end of her days. It was something Hamish secretly loved about her.

Helen asked him for one thing and one thing only.

His love.

Well, maybe two things.

Because she also, proudly, took his name.

Helen Marie Weller became Helen Marie Watson.

And then came Harriet Judith Watson. Named for Helen's mother, Harriet, and her grandmother, Judith.

And when John Hamish Watson was brought into the world, they followed the tradition. Well, sort of. Both Hamish's father and grandfather's names were John. He didn't quite think John John Watson would give him any thanks from his son. Even if Harry begged them to do it so that she could endlessly tease her baby brother "John-John".

This was his son. Of course, he loved both his children equally. But there was something about a father and son. The carrying on of legacy.

And what did Hamish have to offer his child? No land or house or money. No family heirloom.

All he possessed, all he ever had, was his name.

So he gave it to John.

But in the middle though, to spare the boy at least some embarrassment.

He also didn't quite feel worthy enough to give it as a forename.

Hamish George Watson did all he could for his family. But when the factory that employed both bread winners of the home shut down, "all he could do" just didn't seem like enough anymore. He worked nearly nonstop, picking up shifts and odd jobs and temporary positions.

And then he ran into a former factory buddy in the market. The man was on leave from the military. He told his friend of his troubles and the soldier offered the struggling father a solution. Military pay wasn't fantastic. In fact, it was pretty poor in comparison to other positions. But money was money. Little money was better than no money when Hamish was having no luck finding a permanent occupation.

So, after a closed door conversation with his wife, where Helen only waited to cry when her husband left the room, Hamish told her of the opportunity. He was so excited to be able to do something with his life and for his family, she could never bear to even attempt to dissuade him or show any signs of sorrow over the decision.

Years later, she would wish she had.

Little John was as brave as his mother, keeping a stiff lip and small straight shoulders when given the news. Harriet was a little less composed. She crumbled into her mother's arms right there and refused to leave the woman's lap for a good while. John was barely a boy, but somehow, he seemed to understand.

But at night the son allowed himself to silently shed tears for his father.

He would wait until Harry was asleep, as they shared a bed. The first night after their dad left, the girl had just about drown her pillow. John curled himself against her until she finally faded from sobs to slumber. And then, he wept.


	2. For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does John hate his middle name when I painted his father to actually be a good guy this time? Hm. Wait and see kiddos. If you're good like Sherlock and observed a detail in the first chapter, you just might be able to deduce it. But shh.

John

Hamish

Watson.

Sometimes John just wanted to reach into his those three words entitled to him at birth and rip the middle name right out.

John was fairly common. An invisible name. Upon introductions, no one ever once asked, "Oh, John? Curious sounding, isn't it? Family name?"

And Watson, well, people didn't usually bother with surnames these days. They didn't proclaim your profession anymore and there were so many Watson's, just like there were John's, he didn't stand out much.

John Watson.

Yes, that was just fine, thank you.

He could leave with just that.

But then he had done one of the profoundly stupid things in his life.

_"The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson."_

Why he included the H, he didn't know. Habit, he assumed. It was like how he just automatically tacked "Dr." on the front. People didn't call him that in real life, and he wouldn't want them to. But, in writing, it had been drilled into his brain. Especially since the military. It took him awhile to stop putting "Captain" at the beginning of correspondences.

He had never even really noticed that he had added the "H" until none other than Sherlock bloody Holmes pointed it out.

No one could say John Watson wasn't a skilled actor. He had been forced to tell comrades and friends that they were going to pull through, when he knew they were lost causes. At the clinic, he could slap on a smile for even the most irritating patients. And more than once did he have to partake in some undercover scheme of Sherlock's.

So when the detective mentioned, "John  _H._ Watson?" he quickly pulled on his stoic solder-doctor-flatmate-to-a-crazy-man face.

"Yep."

He wasn't an idiot. Just like he saw Sherlock stuffing his slipper with cigarettes behind him, he also could feel the man's scrutinizing gaze.

_Great._

Even without seeing it, the blogger knew that look.

And just like that, John had become a case for Sherlock.

One of the mysteries the sleuth salivated to solve. Why this was something Sherlock chose to focus on out of all of the unknown knowledge in the world was beyond John. And, of course, it would just so happen that they actually hadn't had a real case in quite some time. Therefore, Sherlock would be looking for  _anything_ to satisfy his need for fix. John would have been elated the man was turning to something other than cancer sticks for stimulation if it was anything else being put under Sherlock's microscope.

In that moment, John knew.

The detective was relentless. He wouldn't stop until he found exactly what he was looking for.

The truth was going to come out eventually.

John just prayed he could put it off for as long as humanly possible.

With Sherlock, that wasn't going to grant him much time.

In fact it was only the next morning when Sherlock made mention of it again. Of course, Sherlock's version of bringing it up again was merely bluntly taking a guess at John's middle name during their previously comfortably conversation-less breakfast.

John could again feel Sherlock's deducing glare even through the newspaper that he was pretending to read. Well, he had initially been genuinely attempting to catch up on an article regarding Afghanistan. That was, of course, until he felt that piercing stare on the other side of the print. He read the same sentence four times before giving up. Besides, the article only reminded him of that stupid "H" anyway.

Lowering the paper onto the table, John switched to a local current events excerpt and feigned interest in the piece.

Finally, his silent interrogator spoke.

"Henry?"

Without looking up, and concealing every single fragment of roaring emotions inside himself, John replied simply and sternly.

"Shut up."

It was a tone he used that actually sometimes managed to have the desired effect of the words on his friend. At least, for a short period of time.

Thankfully, they received a succession of cases the following weeks and Sherlock blissfully abandoned his quest, to John's hidden relief. A month nearly passed and John had nearly forgotten about it all, hoping the same of Sherlock, until one particularly quiet day.

Sherlock had taken to studying some samples from Molly to pass the time but had been doing so for a few hours. He was teetering on the edge of dangerous boredom until, seemingly out of nowhere, he remembered his flatmate's mystery.

Looking up from the microscope, Sherlock cocked his head toward John, who was sitting in his chair reading.

"Humphrey?"

John's response is instant, despite his internal moment of panic.

" _Shut_ up."

And, oh, the things he wants to say. The words, the pleadings that scream from behind his skull and stoic expression.

_"Please, just stop."_

_"Leave it alone, just this once."_

_"For the first time in your life, let it go."_

_"I'm begging you, Sherlock, drop it."_

_"Don't do this."_

_"Don't make me tell you."_

_"I can't."_

_"Not this."_

_"Please, for me."_


	3. For John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some Sherlock sleuthing...

Sherlock Holmes never, if he could manage it, left a case unsolved. The few that escaped his grasp tended to haunt him. All the unanswered questions. And even more so, the stench of failure upon them. His failure.

He never quit, or failed, if he could help it.

So when it came to the deliciously fun mystery of his flatmate's middle name, he knew he wasn't going to stop until he got his answers. It wasn't as critical as a case or exciting as certain experiments, so sometimes it did slip from his radar. He didn't consider it priory, just more of a pleasant little project.

He wanted to figure this one out with his own mental findings. He wished to somehow deduce the title. He had even taken some free time to draw up a flowchart.

He was reading it over once morning as he got himself dressed. Abandoning the document, Sherlock stepped into the hallway, buttoning his jacket and pausing outside the door to the bathroom.

The shower was running. Had been for awhile. This was fairly routine for John. There had been a long case, ending in quite the chase and scuffle that previous night. John had been on the receiving end of a few blows before the soldier had taken down the criminal. He had claimed that he was unscathed from the brawl but the lengthened time of running water told Sherlock a different story. John's shoulder was bothering him, most likely having been disturbed during the fight. This wasn't the first or last time the doctor retreated to a lengthy hot shower to alleviate the pain he refused to admit existed.

There was something else he was lying about.

Well, not properly lying.

Being dishonest through omission. It was  _technically_ a form a lying.

And, apart from his thirst for knowledge and curiosity, Sherlock wanted to know why.

Not to solve the question.

But to solve his friend.

John was quite the model of British stereotypes. And Sherlock wasn't talking about the man's liking of jumpers, tea and biscuits. John was a reserved fellow. He didn't reject sentiment like the sleuth, but he certainly didn't wear it on his sleeve. Even his striped one. He didn't openly talk about Harry's drinking, but he didn't clam up if someone else brought it up. There was a lot John Watson didn't talk about, but not a lot that he  _refused_ to discuss. If John outright avoided a topic, it usually meant something quite serious.

What could be so serious about a middle name?

This was far more than just trivial embarrassment of how it sounds.

But this was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They weren't going to go and have a sit down and happily share their feelings and secrets. There was always a disguise for anything of sentiment exchanged between them. Sometimes it was a joke with an underlying meaning. Other times they utilized other things to hide the root of the matter. Like now. Sherlock wouldn't confront John about whatever this problem was. No, he'd turned it into a case. He knew John would rather be annoyed or even angry at his friend, then have his flatmate bring it up in a different or direct way.

So, when Sherlock called out "Higgins?" to the showering man, he wasn't at all surprised when he received a firm "Go. Away." from the other side of the door.

He would know when he hit his mark. If he guess right. Even John couldn't hide the hesitation that would appear in his voice. And then he could conduct his research and finish his deductions. He only had to find out the name first.

And yet that was proving to be far more difficult than Sherlock had originally thought. He approached John with about a dozen more names, each time only eliciting a "shut up", "go away", or slammed door.

Not to mention, how every single time he brought up the taboo topic to John, his flatmate would become further and further agitated. And sometimes Sherlock deducing gaze could have sworn he saw shimmers of concealed sorrow in his friend. On a few occasions, he caught the good doctor clenching his fist or closing his eyes. Not directly talking about an issue was one thing, but this was tearing up his blogger on the inside. Even if the stoic soldier tired to hide it, just like that shoulder pain, he wasn't perfect. And Sherlock wasn't your typical flatmate. He may not always have been observant to others' feelings, but he could see what this was doing to John.

He was going to have to do this a different way.

He preferred going about solving such mysteries intellectually, but that wasn't working. He would have to just resort to digging and finding the information for himself.

John wouldn't like it. But that was the point.

Like ripping of a plaster. Quick, painful, but effective. This was sure to elicit the response he wanted from John. The response John needed to release.

Obtaining John's birth certificate wasn't exactly difficult, but it certainly took the fun out of the game, hence why he hadn't done so sooner. But this wasn't for fun anymore. This was for John.

John  _Hamish_ Watson, to be precise.

It took very little prying to discover that the name also belonged to John's father. With a few keyboard clicks, he had Hamish George Watson's military records too. Upon reading them, well, the reason behind his friend's avoidance wasn't really a difficult leap.

Now it was just a matter of getting John to admit it.


	4. Two Bottles

Sherlock waited near the door as he listened to his flatmate ascending the stairs. Of course he had read the slip of paper in his hands and had already done his research, but, well, he was always one for dramatics. Even in something as serious as this, Sherlock just had to put on a show. Besides, it fell in line with their silent agreement of not talking about things. No, Sherlock wouldn't bring it up to John that he not so legally acquired his birth certificate and now knows why John loathes his middle name. Instead, Sherlock would position himself so that John would see him, with said document, initiating what he assumed would be quite the verbal confrontation. But not an emotional discussion, no. A fight. And a fight was better than a sentimental sharing session.

This was just the complicated way things worked around 221B Baker Street.

What else did one expect with a self proclaimed sociopath and a stiff lipped soldier who both happened to be emotion shoving British males?

The door swung open and in shuffled John. He was sighing tiredly and carrying bags of shopping. Sherlock waited as his flatmate walked past him, eyes glancing at the piece of paper. The detective watched as his friend drew himself to a stop, backed up, gaze roaming the document again.

" _That's_ my birth certificate."

"Yep."

Popping the "p", Sherlock casually began walking away. He could feel John staring after him. It wasn't the initial reaction he had been counting on, but all the man had to do was wait. Sometimes John let his emotions, especially his anger, boil a bit before letting it spill over.

"My birth certificate," John repeated slowly, setting down the groceries, all the while keeping his head to the ground.

"Quite easy to obtain, in fact, really," Sherlock shrugged, yet eyeing his friend, waiting.

John was gripping the edge of the kitchen table now as he leaned forward.

"So," Sherlock waved the document. "John  _Hamish_ Watson."

John cleared his throat and shook his head.

"Good," he nodded, straightening and starting to put the items away. "That's - good for you. Now you can stop bothering me about it."

The entire time he spoke, the blogger refused to look into the sitting area at the detective, even keeping his back toward the man.

"Yet the case isn't entirely solved," Sherlock continued. "You  _hate_ it. Why? Family name, I assume. Sherlock, of course, is one. As is Mycroft -"

"Just," John dragged out the "s" tiredly, "stop it."

"Well,  _actually_ , I don't have to assume, seeing as your birth certificate clearly labels you as the son of Helen and Hamish Watson. Hm. Interesting. Helen, Hamish, Harriet. Think they were going for a pattern. People do that. Have five children and start them all with "K". How dull and aggravating. And yet they went with John instead of the obvious fourth "H"."

"A real mystery," John was attempting to sound casual and sarcastic, but something was certainly off in his tone.

"Or perhaps not." Sherlock dropped into his chair, crossing his legs. "After acquiring your birth certificate -"

And then, it happened.

Oh, Sherlock knew exactly what button to push. He was well aware that if he mentioned the birth certificate enough, he could produce a response. John did so have a thing about his privacy.

"Yes!  _My_ birth certificate!" John spun around, shouting. "Mine. Not property of Sherlock Holmes when he bloody feels like stealing it. Mine. Why am I not surprised? The great genius that is Sherlock Holmes doesn't have enough brain capacity to fit being a decent human being into his Mind Palace! Just  _once_ , Sherlock, could you listen to me?  _Once_. One time! I told you, to  _stop_."

"Yes, but why?" Sherlock challenged, arching a single eyebrow and filling his voice with feigned arrogance instead of the concern for his friend he was truly experiencing.

"I said "stop it"!" John barked. "Leave it alone, Sherlock.  _Now_."

"But your father's name, John. It has to mean  _something_ to you. I mean, I'm named after some great grandfather. I don't care. But I'm not most people. And your father. Not some distant relative you never knew. This is more than just embarrassment from childhood nicknames."

"One more word, Sherlock," John threatened, stepping across the threshold into the sitting room.

"Are you angry with him for some reason? No, that's not it. Ashamed? He was your father, John. A soldier, like you. Are you not proud of him at all?"

"Of course I am!"

The scream that shook the flat was of a caliber neither of the men had ever directed at one another before. And then, silence. It was heavy and fell over the room like weighted air.

John clenched his fists and bent his back, stepping forward, and then back, and then forward again. Finally, he turned and disappeared out the door.

Sherlock was mildly worried that his friend was actually not going to return. But the footsteps that he heard led up to the bedroom and not down to the door. A moment later, the stairs creaked again and John came slowly into the room. He shuffled with slouched shoulders to his chair, tossing two tiny bottles at Sherlock before sitting. The detective caught the vials, examining them curiously.

"They aren't identical pills," John shook his head. "You're the genius. You can probably tell whose is whose just by the make and aging and whatever else rubbish you'd see on them. I don't see any of that when I look at them."

John snatched one back, holding it in front of himself.

"I look at this, and I see a man who went to war to provide for his family. I see a man who sacrificed everything for the people he loved. A good, honest, strong, courageous man. A man who fought to the bloody end. Even when his own mind was fighting against him."

He plucked the other bottle from Sherlock's hand.

"And this one? I see a man who ran off to war to make the other man proud. I see a man who let down the people he loved. An idiot and a coward and a disgrace. A man who gave up."

"John," Sherlock started, but the doctor put up a hand to stop him.

"You've probably already done your research and made your deductions. Just, let me speak. Let me say what no online article or birth certificate could tell you. And, for once, Sherlock,  _listen_. Because I'm not going to say any of this again."


	5. Something to Be Proud Of

_After John's dad took that enemy bullet to the head, he came home, and he died. Day after day John watched him dying, pieces of him breaking away. He lost memories and names and sometimes forgot how to eat or drink or tie his shoes. The doctors told the family that there was nothing they could do._

_And just like that, even with his father still being physically present in their home, John became the man of the house._

_He was a teenager now so he could take on odd jobs. He went to school and then straight to work. Once home for the night, he would make sure his father, and his mother and sister, had eaten. Because, if his father literally losing his mind wasn't enough of a blow, his mother had fallen into a dark depression and his sister, well his sister had fallen into a bottle and never resurfaced. So, he wasn't only just the man of the house, he was also usually the only one conscious or coherent in the house._

_But there were the good days._

_The days where his father was a bit more of himself than the others. Where he would laugh and share stories of his time abroad. But never about that last day. Never about when he got shot. Only the funny or heroic and adventurous tales. John knew when the man was skimming the surface of a particular event, sometimes purposefully omitting the deaths of his comrades. He never mentioned it. He was grateful for the good days, no matter what stories his father told._

_His father's devotion and duty, along with his riveting anecdotes sparked the soldier in John._

_And his death, created the doctor._

_It was ironic, really, that Hamish Watson's final day would be one of those good ones. Or maybe just sad reality. Cruel fortune? A gift? John didn't really care. None of it mattered once the man was gone._

_But before he breathed his last breath, Hamish had told his son something. Another story. A new story._

That  _day._

_He divulged in whispered detail of the surprise attack. Of bullets and blood. Of weeping men on the battlefield because all pride and thoughts of honor and glory mattered little when your best friend was lying in a pool of his own life giving liquid._

_John often wondered if his father knew it was his going to be his last day._

_Because he told him one more thing. Well, asked him._

"What was it?" Sherlock prompted after a long moment of John merely staring at the fireplace.

"He asked," John paused to clear his throat. "He asked me, to take care of them, my mum and Harry. To ' _live a life to be proud of_ '. Look how bloody well I did," he shook his head. "Mum died a year later. She was on medication, for the depression. I usually watched her, made sure she took it, or didn't take too much. But Harry called. Drunk, of course. I went to go pick her up. I was gone ten minutes.  _Ten minutes_."

He didn't need to say it for Sherlock to know. Overdose. Sherlock hadn't known that. Hadn't researched or deduced that far yet. It certainly explained quite a bit. It wasn't John just being a good doctor or friend when he expressed concern over Sherlock's more recreational past activities.

"She died and Harry, well, Harry was Harry," John continued. "Got off the booze for a bit after meeting Clara. Thought it was okay to leave her then. That she'd be okay. I'd finished med school and was ready to go. I'd just been waiting, making sure she was okay first. Get a letter one day, Harry's engaged. She gets married and her and Clara both send me letters all the time. They're happy, I mean, really happy. And I think, well, bloody hell. Maybe I finally did it. Harry's okay. Better than okay. Me, I'm helping people.  _Saving_ people. She's good. Then I go and get myself shot."

John bowed his head while shaking it again.

"I never told you how I got shot," he sighed. "I'm not going to give you the details, so  _don't_ ask. I'll tell you that it hurt like hell. That a bloody bomb flipped our vehicle. That it landed on my leg. That I watched four of my men, my friends, die. I was a doctor, damn it. A soldier and a doctor and none of that mattered. When I finally got out from under the bloody thing, I tried to save the two that were still alive. Got shot for it. Didn't even save them. Killed the bastards, but passed out after that. Woke up a week later in hospital. On top of finding out I'm out of the Army and that my days as a doctor might be over, I'm in recovery a bit later and in comes Harry. Completely pissed. Clara called once. Said Harry started drinking after she got word about me getting shot."

John paused, collecting himself.

"My dad, he, told me, uh, how he got shot. He saved someone's life. He took a bullet to the brain. He wasn't a Captain or a doctor and he saved his friend's life. I was both, and what did I do? I got shot  _not_ saving my friends lives."

John rolled his head back.

"So, that's it. He told me to take care of Mum and Harry and I couldn't do that. He told me to live a life to be proud of, and I certainly didn't do that. I'm not proud of me. I wanted him to be proud too. Proud of what? Letting my Mum kill herself? Not taking care of Harry? Getting shot and driving her back to the damn bottle. And what did I get shot for anyway? I used all my supplies on my friends, so there were none left for me. That's why I bloody passed out and took a fever. So I was left a mess for weeks, barely conscious for most of it. But, 'hey,' the damn doctors would say to me, 'you're alive. You get to go home'. What they don't say is 'but, by the way, the only home and family you have is your sister, who, is a drunk again. She left her wife because she drank so bad and thought you were going to die like your dad. So, she's going to give you a mobile and bug you about calling her, because that's what she does. But you're going to know that she really is mad at you, deep down. And you think she's going to help you build your destroyed life when you destroying your life ruined hers? But, hey, you're alive, mate'"

John stopped again, taking in a breathe.

"So, there's your answer, Sherlock. No, I'm not  _ashamed_ of the name. I'm ashamed that I  _have_ his name. He told me about our family. The Watson history. Dirt poor, the lot of them. All he had to give me was his name. And what did I do with it? Hm? Not a bloody thing."

There was a sharp silence that followed as John refused to now look at the other man.

Until, finally, Sherlock spoke.

"Idiot."


	6. What John Gave

John glanced up in surprise at his flatmate's sudden snapping insult.

" _Captain_ John Hamish Watson  _ashamed_ of himself.  _Doctor_ John Hamish Watson. I would've hoped that the person I choose to share a flat with would be a bit more intelligent than that. You told me your father gave you the name because it was all he had to give, but from the man you have become, he obviously gave you much more. And look what you've given. John, you are a doctor who went to war. You were shot, and survived. Tell me, how many men and women did you save before you were shot? Before you enlisted? You are choosing which memories to keep. Keeping score in your head. What about being the first in your family to obtain a degree from university? And a medical degree, at that. And if your mother was truly determined to end her own life, she would have done so, whether you were there or not. She would have found a way. It wasn't because you couldn't care for her enough or because you left. She was unhappy. You were her  _son._ Not her husband, not her father, not her doctor. Her son. She was supposed to be taking care of you. And Harry? John, you are a medical man. You know what you are saying is not true. Some people do not want to be, or can't be, saved." He paused, penetrating eyes fixing on his friend. "But some can."

"I seem to remember a certain invalided soldier who shot a man to save someone he barely knew. Who, while bound to a chair no less, managed to save both myself and his date. A friend, who while strapped to a bomb, offered his own life for mine. Who did and does all of these things without thinking. Without hesitation. I am proud to call you my friend. And I would say, if he were alive today, your father would be proud to call you his son. But, neither of those things matter.  _You_ need to be proud. Of the people you've saved. The lives you've changed. The things you've done. And the person you are."

John stared after Sherlock for a stretched and silent few seconds. He had never heard Sherlock speak so openly, or with such sentiment, even if his voice had retained most of his usual indifference throughout the entire speech.

Clearing his throat, John swallowed, forcing a smile.

"Well, Sherlock, I certainly never imagined you to be the inspirational speech giving type," he coughed.

"I state only facts," Sherlock shrugged. "If you have, in anyway, been  _inspired_ by my words, than that is your fault entirely."

"Are you sure you don't want to try it again?" John teased. "Raise the voice? Sound a bit more like a girl?"

"I could just borrow your voice to achieve that effect," Sherlock smirked.

Their grins faded and the two friends locked gazes. Sherlock subtly bowed his head while John nodded stiffly in return. And that was all that needed to be said or done.

It was only mere seconds later when Sherlock started spouting off about the infuriating lack of murderers and criminals in London as of late. John followed the complaint by berating the man for wishing harm to innocent people just so he could flaunt his brain's muscles.

And that was it.

John's middle name, or his past, was never brought up again. Well, almost never.

Because when John said it to Irene and Sherlock, there was no shame behind it.

Because when years later, it was printed for all to see, there was no underlying pain.

John pointed at the computer screen.

"Does it  _have_ to be on the invitation?" He sighed.

"It's your name." Mary protested. "It's traditional."

"It's funny." Sherlock spoke in unison with John's bride-to-be.

And when John looked back around at Sherlock while Mary was busy biting back a laugh, there was no hostility there.

Because, maybe, yes, it was a little funny. And quite possibly John was a tad bit embarrassed by the sound of it.

But never embarrassed of the name itself. Never ashamed of the title again.

Or himself.

He was living a life he was most certainly proud to live and doing his best to take care of those in his life he held most dear, even if people like Sherlock and Harry made that task impossibly difficult. And John knew now, that that man he was today that could endure playing parent to a self-proclaimed sociopath and an alcoholic, was due much in part to that owner of the middle name he wore. Hamish Watson had given his son much more than a name. And John Watson had given so much in his life in return.

Captain John Hamish Watson, M.D. looked forward to the day where he could hand his name down to a future son or grandson. And he would do so proudly.


End file.
